


Christmas, 1965

by JuliaRose12



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, First Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaRose12/pseuds/JuliaRose12
Summary: Snapshots of Christmas 1965, otherwise known as Napoleon and Illya's first Christmas together.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	Christmas, 1965

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hspecters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hspecters/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to one of my closest and most cherished friends in the whole wide world,,,, ADIE!!!! As you now know, I am your secret santa, and I was so thrilled to get to write this for you :] I am so happy that we share such a strong love for these characters - I always have so much fun talking about them with you, and I hope you enjoy these little glimpses into one of their many Christmases together<33 i love you SO MUCH!!!!! MERRY CHRISTMAS BBY!!!!
> 
> so to Adie and to anyone reading this who is not Adie, I hope you enjoy!!

Two weeks until Christmas, and the tree farm trip goes almost exactly as Napoleon expects it to.

“This one,” Illya says matter-of-factly from somewhere behind Napoleon. Napoleon turns, and Illya nods towards what is quite literally the very first tree in the entire field. “This one looks good.” 

“You are disrespecting the entire process right now. You know that, right?” Napoleon shakes his head and turns just in time to catch Illya’s eye roll. “You can’t just settle for the first tree that catches your eye.”

“That’s what I did with you,” Illya steps past Napoleon and stops in front of another tree, studying it with mock intensity. “Although you talk a lot more than a tree.” 

“Those are big words from someone who isn’t holding an axe right now,” Napoleon swings said axe up to rest on his shoulder and curls his other arm through Illya’s crossed one, tugging him away from the tree holding his attention and towards the rest. 

Illya huffs, but follows Napoleon down the dirt path, pine needles embedding themselves in the bottoms of their boots, and up to every single tree that Napoleon agonizes over. He nods through Napoleon’s rambled pros and cons - why this tree doesn’t have the right sort of needles, how this one might be too big but is the perfect shape, where this one has too many dead branches, and on and on and on, until Illya interrupts him. 

“If you take any longer to choose, Cowboy,” Illya says, fondness clear in his voice with every word, “it will be January.”

“We’re lucky that this one looks perfect, then,” Napoleon grins in the direction of the tree they’ve stopped in front of. Illya wraps a heavy arm around Napoleon’s shoulders, and Napoleon’s mind wanders to a fully decorated apartment, a tree covered in sparkling ornaments, a holiday season more tangible and domestic than he ever would have imagined for himself. A December that a past version of him might not have even wanted, but right now feels like the most welcome thing in the world. Illya nudges his shoulder, just enough to bring him back to the present - back to the subtle smell of pine and Illya’s warm breath against the top of his head.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Napoleon pushes the axe into Illya’s hand, and Illya’s laugh sparks a misty cloud that floats up past their heads. 

“We will take turns,” Illya says, “since you are the expert.” 

“You’re just saying that so you have less work to do,” Napoleon shakes his head with a smile on his face, and when Illya says, “I’ll do it next year,” Napoleon smiles even wider.

***

One week until Christmas, and the apartment smells like apples and cinnamon, warmth blanketing Napoleon despite the fact that this has been one of the coldest New York Decembers he can remember.

He’s watching Illya from the couch - Illya, standing at the stove with an apron tied haphazardly around his waist, stirring a simmering pot and quietly humming along to the jazzy Christmas carol coming from the radio on the counter. Illya moving in wasn’t a major change, since he’d spent so much time here before it was even official, but the entire space feels different now, homier and safer and warmer, like Illya was what had been missing all along.

Napoleon wraps the blanket from his lap around his shoulders and walks up behind Illya, not stopping until his arms are wrapped firmly around Illya’s waist and his chest is pressed flat against Illya’s back.

“Smells like Christmas,” Napoleon mumbles between Illya’s shoulder blades.

Illya hums in agreement as the song on the radio changes to a gentle version of _Silent Night_. “My mother would make cider every year around this time. Our house always smelled this way.” He pauses, and Napoleon gives him a moment in the past, squeezing his waist just a little bit tighter. When Illya speaks again, his voice is stronger and clearer than Napoleon expects it to be. “It is nice to carry on the tradition.” 

“I’m honored to be a part of it,” Napoleon answers, and he knows that Illya knows he means every word. 

Illya rests his wooden spoon on the counter and covers the steaming pot with the lid. He turns on his heel and takes Napoleon’s hands in his, glancing back over his shoulder at the stove when Napoleon raises his eyebrows.

“Has to simmer,” Illya shrugs, and Napoleon just laughs and pulls him closer.

The tug turns into a waltz, and Illya laughs against the side of Napoleon’s face as Napoleon spins him around the kitchen. Napoleon’s arm curls tighter around Illya, this time to keep himself from slipping on the tiles, and Illya squeezes his hand in return. By the time _Silent Night_ has transitioned softly to _The Christmas Song_ , they’re swaying more than anything else. Illya’s hand is rubbing steadily up and down Napoleon’s back, from the bottom of his neck to the base of his spine, and it’s calming enough that for a second, Napoleon thinks he could fall asleep right here, standing up in Illya’s arms. 

He’s not even embarrassed by the dissatisfied noise he makes when Illya untangles the two of them and turns back to the stove. “Have to stir,” Illya says as justification for the lost dance, but he sighs contentedly as Napoleon steps up behind him and massages his shoulders.

“I can sacrifice you to the stove for a few minutes, if I must,” Napoleon teases. “A small price to pay for the final product.” 

Illya laughs again, his shoulders shaking with it as Christmas music continues to float through the room, and Napoleon decides that he isn’t really paying any price at all.

***

One hour until Christmas, and Napoleon prefers Illya where he is right now over anywhere else. _Where he is right now_ being tucked up against Napoleon on the couch, alternating between watching the snow fall steadily outside and admiring their tree, which looks just as stunning as Napoleon knew it would.

There’s a small pile of carefully-wrapped gifts underneath - Illya’s dislike of shopping has never been a secret to Napoleon, but he’d insisted on going alone and had been gone for hours, and that thought fills Napoleon with even more warmth. The radio continues to play, a piano version of a song Napoleon can’t recall the name of drifting over their heads, and more than once his wine glass almost slips out of his hand.

The third time Napoleon almost dozes off, the glass is taken from him with a chuckle, and he cranes his neck up and to the side to be met with Illya’s lips against his temple. “Tired, Cowboy?” Illya teases. “I thought you said we needed to stay awake until midnight.”

“I am trying my hardest, I can assure you,” Napoleon replies. “You just happen to be very comfortable.” 

“One of my many talents,” Illya says casually. He curls his arm around Napoleon’s shoulders and shifts the two of them sideways so that Napoleon is now lying almost entirely on top of Illya. There’s barely enough room - Illya’s right leg and Napoleon’s left arm are both dangling over the edge, but once Illya tosses the blanket resting on the top of the couch over Napoleon’s back, it feels like the most comfortable place in the world.

Illya breathes out contentedly, his chest rising and falling with it. Napoleon can feel his relaxation as strongly as his own, and it’s reassuring, and comforting, and everything Napoleon could ever ask for. He settles his head against Illya’s chest and closes his eyes for a moment, and then opens them again to reach clumsily for Illya’s watch on the coffee table.

“One minute,” he says as he pushes himself up on his elbows.

“Merry Christmas,” Illya smiles against Napoleon’s lips, warm and safe and so, so happy.

“Merry Christmas, Peril,” Napoleon answers as the clock turns to midnight. Illya kisses him on their too-small couch, underneath their snowflake-patterned blanket, and it couldn’t possibly be merrier.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! i hope everyone is staying safe and has a wonderful holiday season <3


End file.
